


A Certain Shade of Green

by Aeolist



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Drunkenness, F/M, Truth or Dare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 22:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5391932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aeolist/pseuds/Aeolist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He woke up slowly to the sensation of a slow, wet tickle along his foot. (Truth or Dare fic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Certain Shade of Green

**Chapter One: Sedate**

He woke up slowly to the sensation of a slow, wet tickle along his foot.

“Mmf. Rose.”

The sensation spread, spanning his big toe to his heel and back again. He forced one eye blearily open, realising he was sprawled out on his stomach, foot hanging over the edge of the bed. His head was _pounding_.

The wet tickle moved to his other foot, then his ankle.

“Mm, Rose, what are you---”

“ROSE!” Jackie’s voice hit him like a freight train, or like nails on a chalkboard, or something similarly loud and traumatizing. “Bad dog!”

The wet tickling stopped and a skittering sound echoed through the room and down the hall.

“Dunno what himself’s doin’ in _here_.” She poked him in the ribs. “Rise and shine!”

He lifted his head, very unfortunately staring directly into the eyes of Jackie Tyler.

“Tell me, Doctor, did you break into my guest house last night?”

He tried to assert his innocence, but what came out was, “Merf.”

“Get up, then! What’re you doin’ in here? Rose’s gone out with Pete. You’re stuck with me for the day.”

He started the quite frankly tremendous effort of pulling himself out of bed when he realized three things: first, he was wearing nothing but a pair of green spandex shorts that _had to_ , based on the cut, belong to Rose (he hoped); second, someone had scrawled “Property of Rose Tyler” across his chest in very sloppy handwriting - in green _glitter pen_ , no less; and third, he was almost definitely about to vomit.

Suddenly, he found he was able to move with great alacrity. He hopped out of the bed (a very short twin bed, he noticed, definitely more suitable for a child than a very dashing and tall man such as himself), _very carefully_ avoided Jackie Tyler’s eyes, and made it into the en suite just in time to vomit rather enthusiastically into the toilet.

He groaned. Never, _never_ had he vomited unintentionally, until now. Especially not while his head was pounding from what had to be a hangover (he suddenly regretted the times he had mocked the human hangover, but then he was suddenly regretting many things). Especially not while Jackie Tyler clucked her tongue at him from the doorway.

“Lookit you. You and Rose’re a matching pair this morning.”

Hand gripping the bowl, he realized his fingernails were painted bright green. They matched the shorts. How nice.

A faint buzzing noise caught his attention. He looked over to see a mobile phone (one of those ones with the touch screens) perched on the sink’s edge. He grabbed it, looking down at the screen, which still had shrink wrap over it. Brand new. He didn’t have a phone. At least he didn’t think he did. But then, the phone was also bright green.

He had one text message from a contact logged as “the most MAGnificent woman IN the MULTIverse.”

_Doctor... I realize that you are still getting used to your human body, but we probably shouldn't drink that much, ever again._

Looking down at himself and realizing his toes were painted to match, he groaned and typed a short reply.

_Green’s not my colour._

He flushed the toilet (looking away) and stood slowly, taking a moment to wash his face with cool water. Then, he scraped a fingernail against the glitter ink on his chest (to no avail), before finally meeting Jackie’s eyes in the vanity mirror.

It was really quite odd how she was so clearly laughing at him even as her mouth wasn’t moving. It was all in the eyes.

“Feelin’ better?”

The words “I need to lie down,” escaped without any conscious forethought, which was probably for the best, as he’d been _consciously_ contemplating telling Jackie Tyler to shove off, which he knew wouldn’t go over very well anywhere, let alone in her own guest house.

He walked out of the en suite without seeing what was in front of him, plopping down onto the bed, a swooping feeling coursing through his stomach as the thing was just a bit farther down than a bed should be.

“So I’ll just let you rest some more. In the children’s guest bedroom. Of all places.”

“Guh.”

“Never been hungover before, have you?”

He pulled the blanket (covered in fire trucks) over his head with one hand, hoping she’d get the message.

“Thought so.”

He heard her shuffle past him and tried his best to ignore the ceaseless pounding in his head (he could understand how this could drive someone mad, really, he could) until she finally drifted back over him and plopped something down on the nightstand next to him.

“Take these. And drink _all_ the water. No arguments. Then get some more rest. You sure about stayin’ here? Got more than enough full-sized beds and you’re not exactly short.”

She paused, and he silently contemplated the likelihood of neural implosion caused by the decibel range of the human voice (300 Hz to 3500 Hz, of course, even hungover he knew that, and Jackie was situated at, oh, about 1224 Hz, which, though quiet for her, was still quite loud for him). The likelihood was essentially nil, but someone ought to tell that to his throbbing head.

“All right, then. Suit yourself.”

He uncovered one eye, glaring at the paper cup of water and two pills.

“Aspirin?”

“Paracetamol.”

He grabbed at the pills and water, downing them and drinking it all before throwing the covers over his head again.

“Lovely pedicure, by the way, Doctor. Suits you.”

She shut the door as she left.

It didn’t take long for him to realize that he wasn’t getting back to sleep. For one thing, his feet were hanging off the end of the bed. And his stomach felt ... well, it wasn’t nausea, exactly, but it was a bit… _weird._ Not to mention his head.

A buzzing sensation against his palm jolted him upright, momentarily disoriented, until he realized he was still clutching that mobile phone he’d found in the en suite. He sat up, back leaning against the headboard (though it was too short for him to lean his whole upper body against), and looked at the screen.

_Dunno. Green was definitely your colour last night._

What did she mean by---?

_(They’re in a pub. They’re eating fish and chips and drinking cheap beers and laughing and, sure, the chips here taste a little bit different - the salt content’s way less, for one thing, and the potato crops in this universe might actually be slightly more similar to yuca, but they’re good, and Rose is looking at him just like she used to and he’s starting to really trust that she means it when she says she knows he’s still him._

_They’re at a table, off in a dark corner. The place is really a hole in the wall, but aren’t the best pubs and chippies the little dank ones, the ones with questionable choices in lighting and decor? He’s always thought so, at least._

_But then a bloke - tall, dark hair, blue eyes, pretty - comes right up to Rose - right up to their table, paying him no mind at all._

_“Hey,” the man says, and he’s American. Typical._

_Rose’s lips quirk in good humor for a second before she responds. “Hi.”_

_“I was wondering if I could buy you a drink.”_

_She holds up her beer, still a third or so full, and shrugs. “Got one, mate.” She glances at the Doctor for a second, just a second, and then grins at the American. “Thanks, though.”_

_“The one after that, then.”_

_“She said no, thanks,” the Doctor says, voice sharp. The American glares at him and opens his mouth, looming over their table just a bit, but Rose interjects before he has a chance to speak again._

_“S’okay, Doctor.” She smiles at the American. “I’m all set.” She pats the Doctor’s forearm. “Anyway, I’m with him.”_

_The American looks between the two and shrugs, heading back to the bar where several of his friends chuckle and one shouts, “Deflected!”_

_Rose rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling._

_The Doctor mutters to himself, something about, “pretty blue-eyed Americans,” and Rose meets his eyes, hers sparkling and utterly shameless._

_“You’re jealous.”_

_“Am not!”_

_“Are too! Look at you. Grumble grumble.” She laughs, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Practically turning green, you are.”_

_“It’s just rude, Rose. We’re obviously… here. Together. That’s all.”_

_“Yeah, it was rude.” She bites her lip. “But you’re still jealous.”_

_He looks up at the bar, face shuttered, and watches as she raises the pint to her lips. It’s nearly empty when she puts it down._

_“I’ll just get us another round, shall I?”_

_“Kay. And how about two shots of slansk? Don’t have it in our universe. It’s good - s’like whiskey, but it’s a bit sweet.”_

_He shoots her a look, raising an eyebrow. “Shots?”_

_“I could ask that American bloke, if you don’t want to get ‘em, yeah?”_

_She’s grinning playfully and he knows she’s just teasing, but he still can’t stop the way he glares, the way the tips of his ears heat up. This (part) human circulatory system’s just bonkers, sending blood to all sorts of unnecessary places based on, of all things, emotional responses. He aims for casual anyway._

_“Slansk, it’s called?”_

_“Yep!”_

_“Be right back.” )_

She might’ve had a point, green being his color. Still, hardly a reason to … paint him up like this. Although…

He typed out a response. Deleted the last sentence. Wrote it again. Closed his eyes and hit send.

_Property of Rose Tyler, am I? I thought you were a proponent of human rights._

He waited, heart thumping a little bit harder than he was used to (though he wasn’t used to it at all, was he? It all felt so terribly slow compared to having two). Nervously, he peeled back the plastic over the screen, holding it between his fingers and looking through it (polyethylene, almost certainly). He was tempted to throw it on the floor, but thought better of it as he glanced at the paper cup next to the bed, so he stuck it in there instead.

The phone buzzed and his stomach seemed to do a somersault. Or maybe it was just still a bit unsettled.

_I am! But you consented, so I figure it’s fine. ;) How are you feeling?_

Winky faces. What did winky faces mean? Winks were one thing, he could interpret a wink from Rose, rare as they were, but winky faces? How was he to know? This medium could have all kinds of rules he wasn’t aware of. Surely there was somewhere to learn about text messaging etiquette.

_Oh, I’m fine. Great. How are you? Coming back soon, by any chance?_

Tone. Text messages and tone. Casual? Desperate? How to tell? Tricky. He could do with a bit of reassurance that he was doing this - any of this - right.

_(They drink two more beers, each, and two more shots of slansk, and leave the pub, not quite stumbling, but leaning on each other, heavily, his arm around her shoulders, their steps angled towards each other just slightly in a way that’s graceless and probably hazardous, too, but utterly lovely._

_They’ve laughed and talked about nothing and he’s glared at the American intermittently until the man finally left, glancing at Rose once more on his way out in spite of the Doctor’s spectacularly intimidating stare. They hail a black cab and ask the driver to take them to the Tyler house. The ride’s smooth, but he feels every shift in direction, the gravitational force oddly pleasant in their effect on his relaxed muscles._

_In the backseat, she burrows into his neck, complaining that her head is spinning. He’s immune to that, so far, which really doesn’t make much sense - to have the alcohol tolerance of a human and the motion sickness tolerance of a Time Lord - but these things can’t be predicted. So he just rubs her arm, doing his best to resist nuzzling her and to ignore the way he can feel her warm breath on his open collar. His tie’s still on, but in the pub she’d reached over, loosened his it, and undone the top button when she noticed his cheeks were getting pink from the alcohol and the warm room. Leaning forward had put her chest right at his eyeline and she’d caught him looking at her cleavage. She’d smirked. Smirked! And his cheeks didn’t cool off for a long while, even with the open collar. _

_They’re a bit warm now, even._

_He’s fuzzy, too, and he wants distraction from that warm breath, from her hand on his knee, and her left foot stepping on his right. He doesn’t want her to fall asleep in the cab, because they’ve been drinking, and she might be difficult to wake up, and carrying her out of the cab and into the house might be a little challenging in his state. He tries to focus on the chemicals in his bloodstream, to isolate the ethanol and dissolve it, but finds he can’t. Instead, he tries to think of something to say - more fun catch up, light-hearted stories, banter (they’re good at banter, oh, the best). To keep her awake. To distract himself from the hand on his leg and the changes he’s still discovering with this new body._

_He aims for banter. He misses. Horribly. What comes out is: “Are you happy?”_

_She takes it in stride. “‘Course.”_

_The cold tip of her nose draws a line from below his ear to his collarbone. He gives in and nuzzles her, too, his ear rubbing gently against the top of her head._

_“You are, really? Here, with me?”_

_“‘Course.”_

_“Wouldn’t rather have gone home with... with the American?”_

_She raises her head, turning just slightly, and looking at him. Studying him. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, but the effect is far more sultry than sloshed._

_“I went home with the one I wanted to go home with. Please don’t doubt that.”_

_He may not be at his most subtle. But he’s drunk. Really, actually, properly drunk. Helpless against it, for the first time ever, so he can’t be held accountable for that, then, can he?_

_“‘Sides, Doctor,” she says, nudging his ear with her nose. He can feel her grin on his neck. “Don’t forget: you’re the one going home with me.”_

_He exhales with a whoosh, squeezing her tighter, and feeling just a little dizzy for the first time in what must be centuries._

_The cab drops them off and they stagger gracelessly through the front door and into the lounge. Rose immediately raids the liquor cabinet, pulling out a mostly-full bottle of slansk and one shot glass, beckoning him with a saucy, sauced grin towards her bedroom, which is blessedly in a wing far enough away from Jackie Tyler’s side of the house to assuage the bolt of panic that flew through him at Rose’s loud whispers, even in his not-so-subtle drunk haze._

_“I have an idea,” Rose says, and her smile’s wicked. He gulps.)_

The phone vibrated again, jolting him out of the memory.

_I had some paperwork to do, so I figured I’d let you sleep, but I’m done now. I have a feeling we need some chips. Extra greasy. Trust me. I’ll stop off on the way._

His stomach gurgled unpleasantly. That didn’t sound very good. The sound didn’t sound very good, nor the grease, nor the abstract concept of food. Actually, most things didn’t sound very good (Rose’s return being the obvious exception). He considered a few things simultaneously with his foggy but still rather impressive brain: The ideal text message reply. The possibility of getting up and moving into a bed that was big enough for an adult humanoid. The likelihood that he was going to be sick again. The amount of water his new body needed as compared to a human body or a Time Lord body to remedy minor dehydration.

Just how much he’d drank last night.

_(They play “truth or dare (or drink).”_

_It’s his go first. He chooses dare, of course, and she dares him to go wake her mum with a rendition of “Amazing Grace.” He takes a shot with a cringe, like she knew he would, and she sticks her tongue out at him. He does his best not to stare at it. (He fails.)_

_She chooses dare, too, and to stall he requests a full inventory of supplies (Rose’s choice of items) before he makes his decision._

_She lays out a towel on the floor and throws down her makeup kit, some of Tony’s art supplies, a box of brown hair dye, her mobile, her manicure set, a bag of crisps, a pair of sunglasses, and a small plastic tiara. The shot glass and bottle of liquor are displayed in the middle. They sit opposite one another on the floor, cross-legged, and survey the selection._

_“I think that’s everything,” she says._

_He looks at the items, then around the room, wondering what sine qua non created the assortment in front of him._

_“Right! Great. Um. Let’s see.” He picks up a marker. Sets it down. Then the tiara. He goes quiet for a moment, until he says, “I dare you to eat those crisps.”_

_She glares at him._

_“If you’re not even going to try.” _

_“Er. I’m getting... warmed up.”_

_“You’re better than this, Doctor.”_

_He frowns, picking up the bag of crisps (cheese and onion) and tossing them at her. She catches them, eyes narrowed, and drops them in front of her, staring at him the whole time._

_“Rooose.”_

_“I’m not hungry! We just ate. Not only did we just eat, but we just ate potatoes!”_

_“A dare’s a dare, Rose. The way I see it: you have two options.”_

_She continues to glare as she takes a shot instead, replacing the bottle and the glass between them when she’s done. He wonders if he might’ve done it on purpose, to get back at her._

_“Your turn.”_

_“Er. Truth?”_

_She raises her eyebrows at him, obviously still annoyed. “You sure about that?”_

_“Well… Dunno. Why?”_

_“Cause. Gonna make you drink again.”_

_“You don’t know that!”_

_She tilts her head, considering, then glances at him with an expression that makes him want to squirm. “Did you snog anyone while I was away?”_

_He feels his eyes widen, knows it has to be nearly cartoonish in effect, can’t stop it anyhow. “Um! Well. Hm.”_

_She smiles triumphantly, picking up the bottle and handing it to him without even grabbing the shot glass. He looks down at it, then up at her, then down again._

_“S’okay, Doctor,” she says, and her smile is kind, now - not smug - though the glimmer of mischief remains as she reaches forward with the bottle. “Just take the shot.”_

_He meets her eyes. She knows already, anyway, and he’s suddenly feeling warm and brave. “I did, yeah. Didn’t mean anything. Mostly, it wasn’t even meant to mean anything. You?”_

_“Ha. I didn’t pick truth. Gimme a dare.” _

_“I dare you to tell me, then.”_

_“That’s not how it works!”_

_He gestured at the bottle in her hand. “Rose Tyler, I feel I must inform you, again, that you have exactly two options here.”_

_She purses her lips. “You’re a dirty cheater. Yes. One person. One kiss. One moment of realization that I wasn’t fit to be kissing anyone. And one nice bloke with hurt feelings I avoid in the corridors at Torchwood.”_

_His mouth quirks._

_“What?”_

_“Nothing.”_

_His mouth quirks again._

_“ What, Doctor?” _

_“Well.” He shrugs. “Just taking a second to appreciate that he never stood a chance.” He grins at her, raising his eyebrows. “Poor fellow.”_

_“Shut up. Truth or dare.”_

_“Dare.”_

_“All right. I dare you to… stand on your head and sing ‘I’m a little teapot.’” She folds her arms._

_“Okay!”_

_He gets up, and she blanches. His lips turn down in amusement._

_“What, thought I was going to drink again, did you? Nope! You’re not the only gymnast in the room, even if you are the best.” He winks._

_“Are you sure you should…”_

_He launches into a handstand, using the wall for support, and then walking on his hands until he’s standing free. All the blood immediately rushes to his head, which can’t exactly be surprising, but actually feels kind of pleasant._

_“Be careful!”_

_He starts singing, maintaining his balance with ease even around the very slight vertigo caused by the alcohol. He can’t see Rose’s face, but if her crossed legs and lower abdomen are any indication, she is very impressed._

_He tries to do the moves while he sings it, and that’s his downfall. Literally, his downfall. He makes it to “here is my spout,” and in retrospect he’s not sure what he was expecting, since that part requires two hands. He falls backward gracelessly into a heap next to the bed. On it would’ve been better. But it’s worth it for Rose’s concerned gasp, for the way she rushes in an urgent crawl over to his supine form, the way she cups his head in one hand, checking for any obvious injury, face alert and anxious. Boy, has she joined the community first responder scheme or something? She looks about ready to suture him or give him CPR. But he’s in no pain, and he’s ninety percent sure it’s because he’s actually uninjured (there is a ten percent likelihood that the alcohol’s effect on his central nervous system has dampened his responses to physical stimuli). Either way, he places his hand over hers and grins broadly, trying to reassure her._

_“That counts, right? Or shall I do it again?”_

_“No!”_

_“No, it doesn’t count?” He moves to sit up, to go again, and she grips his shoulder with her other hand, holding him in place._

_“No, don’t do it again. Yes, it counts. You’re okay, yeah?”_

_She leans over him and he moves his hand to her cheek, smiling tenderly._

_“I’m fine. Really. Just a bit of fun.”_

_She swallows, still checking him over, until the mood changes, and suddenly she’s looking down at his bottom lip, licking hers in unconscious response. She curls her hand around the back of his head, ruffling her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and moves closer. He can feel her breath on his face, warm, smelling pleasantly of alcohol._

_  
It would be so easy to lean up and snatch a kiss. So, so easy. And he’s drunk and warm and her hands are so soft._

_And yet he’s still got some sense, even if he’s just jostled his brains. He’d promised himself she’d be the one to kiss him again. When there were no other hims watching. When she sure - really sure - he was still him. He didn’t, and doesn’t, want to pressure her into anymore choices._

_She lets out a sigh, and it means something, but it’s not quite sad._

_“It’s your turn.”_

_He sits up, and her hands slip away. He searches the room for some idea for a dare, landing on the box of John Frieda. He gives her a look, aiming for mischievous, and leans forward to grab the bottle of slansk, unscrewing the cap and taking a sip._

_“Rose Tyler. I dare you to dye a streak of your hair brown.”_

_She shrugs, looking down at the box of hair dye. Chin still tilted, she stares up at him through her eyelashes, that naughty glint back in her eye, and he seriously considers the possibility that he doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into._

_“Why stop at a streak?”_

_They don’t._

_His obvious talent for hair extends quite nicely into the world of coloring someone else’s, and they make quick work of dying it brown, the strands saturated and piled in neat sections atop her head. She’s wearing a ratty old t-shirt and sweats so she doesn’t stain her clothes, while he’s confidently (and repeatedly) announced that he’s not the least worried about spills and, really, she could put on a ball gown and it would be just fine. So he doesn’t change._

_They wait for the color to process, and it’s his turn again._

_“Truth or dare.”_

_“Oh, dare. Definitely dare. No! Wait.” He gestures for the bottle, now on the bathroom counter, and she hands it over. He grins, takes a big swig, and grimaces comically. It’s a helluva lot stronger, that liquor taste and burn, in this part-human body. “Dunno why you think this stuff’s any better than whiskey. It’s awful. Just awful. Slansk. Slaaaansk. It even sounds awful.” He takes another swig, grimaces again. “Okay. Dare.”_

_“Well, Doctor.” Rose smirks. “Since you’ve braced yourself and all.” She walks back into her room and returns with the green nail polish._

_He nods tightly. “Right, then. Fingers or toes?”_

_“Hmm. Let’s start with fingers, yeah? There’s no rush. We’ll get you looking just lovely.”_

_Half an hour later, he’s had another three gulps of slansk and officially upgrades himself from “drunk” to “pissed.” He’s also wearing the tiara and the sunglasses on his head, and all twenty of his nails are green. (Really a lovely shade. Like grass. Earth grass. A longtime favorite of his and a perfect grass to settle down on and model one’s nails after). Hers are red. Pissed though he may be, he’s got the steady hands and artistic skill of a master painter, if he says so himself. He insists on buffing and filing them carefully before he paints them. Even Rose, all mischief and smirks, has to admit she’s never had a nicer (or more efficient) mani-pedi, taking a moment to hold her fingernails out in front of her in careful evaluation._

_“S’great, Doctor, really,” she says, grabbing the liquor bottle roughly from where it sits on the counter (he cringes, but she manages not to smudge her nails) and taking a swig with no hint of a grimace._

_Soon, she washes the dye out, and he sits on the floor of her bedroom trying very hard not to imagine her naked in the shower. He distracts himself with thoughts of the chemical makeup of brown hair dye, sniffing it contemplatively. Definitely… p-phenylenediamine, some sort of aqueous soap and conditioning agent (propylene glycol?) and hydrogen peroxide. After a second, it’s not actually very distracting, so he drinks a bit more._

_Soon, she emerges, all steam and jim jams, and she looks gorgeous with that “medium golden brown” hair, wet around her shoulders, especially leaving a trail of water down her back as she pats at it with a damp towel. She looks gorgeous with any hair, though. She’d look gorgeous with no hair at all. He imagines it and finds he quite likes the mental image, perhaps even more than he thought he would._

_He, however, does not look particularly gorgeous (well, for him, though certainly, objectively, he’s still looking quite dashing) when he returns to the bathroom to clean up. He attempts to rinse out the bottle of dye, but sprays himself vigorously with cold water and coloring solution. Something about the angle he’s holding it, the cap, the water pressure, and the precise position of the faucet lead to a statistically unlikely level of water pressure aimed at his torso, too quick for him to dodge. He replicates the trajectory exactly in his mind, after, and pinpoints the best way to make sure it never happens again, but by then his oxford and trousers are soaked._

_Rose hears him yelp and wanders back into the bathroom. She laughs, of course, and he stands there like a dolt, sink still running, gaping at how brilliantly her eyes stand out against her darker hair, instead of tending to his clothes, which will probably be stained in addition to chemically fragranced. At least he wasn’t wearing his suit._

_“You gonna do something about that?”_

_He swallows. Places the bottle on the counter. Looks down at himself. She hands him her used, damp towel and he fights the urge to sniff it, dabbing at his clothes instead._

_“Hold on,” she says, grinning, and she’s looking wicked again. How does she do that? She runs out of the en suite, but she’s back before he’s finished mopping off, something in her hand._

_“What’s that?”_

_She tosses it at him and he catches it, dropping the towel in the process. He spreads the fabric apart, holding it up between two hands. It’s green, same as his nails, and… small._

_“What is this, a bathing suit?”_

_“Nope! Bicycle shorts. All yours. If you dare.”_

_“And… and a shirt?”_

_She meets his eyes, face guileless._

_“You could go all the way to the wardrobe in your room, yeah, or…”_

_“Or?”_

_She holds up another piece of fabric he didn’t even see she was holding. It’s a babydoll tee shirt that says “Martini Time” in big, block letters, two martini glasses over the chest._

_“Seemed appropriate.”_

_“Where did you--”_

_“Gift from mum.”_

_“Of course. Yeah, all right, give it here.”_

_She tosses the shirt, and he catches it, but drops the shorts. He really must be sloshed, dropping things all over the place like some sort of ... thing dropper._

_He takes a deep breath, shutting himself in the toilet, and drying his chest and thighs as he changes into her clothes._

_They’re tight._

_He’s used to a tight suit, but… These. These are tight. Revealingly tight, even._

_He walks back into her room and expects laughter, mischief, wicked humor. What he gets is... She checks him out. She really, just, blatantly checks him out. Up and down and lingering somewhere in the middle. He feels his cheeks heat up, whether it’s from his frustratingly part-human circulatory system or the slansk, he’s not sure. But he wants the burn of more liquor down his throat as a distraction. Still, she’s never quite looked at him like that before. _

_He sits next to her, fidgeting, pulling the shirt down to cover a strip of midriff that keeps going bare. She scoots next to him, looking up at him in a way he’s trying very hard not to think of as tempting, her left thigh leaning heavily against his right. Her eyes are bright and dark and he’s helpless, just totally helpless._

_“Um. It’s your turn.” He clears his throat. “Truth or dare.”_

_“Dare.”_

_“I, um, I dare you to…” He looks at the remaining items on the towel. “Crank call a random number. ‘Hello, is your refrigerator running?’ Classic!”_

_“Nah.” She scrunches her nose at his suggestion, reaching over and taking a gulp of liquor. She never moves her eyes away from his._

_“Oh. Well. Right. That’s fine, then. My turn.”_

_She smiles, and his stomach flips._

_“Truth or dare, Doctor.”_

_“Dare. Daring, that’s me. Ask anyone!”_

_She nods thoughtfully._

_“Right, ‘course.” She pauses. “I dare you to kiss me.”_

_\--_

**Chapter Two: Inflame**

_He’d promised himself she’d be the one to kiss him again._

_But a dare’s a dare. It’s practically a written invitation, signed and sealed._

_He leans in on one arm and she turns to face him more fully, her eyes fluttering closed. He reaches forward with his other hand, shifting his weight to one side so he can reach over to cup her cheek and neck._

_Naturally, he knocks the liquor bottle over from its place next to his knee. It clangs loudly against the hardwood floor._

_He jolts up, about to right it, but Rose places a hand on his cheek and he turns to her, instead._

_“It’s closed. It’s not spilled.”_

_He hesitates, and his one heart is pounding in such a way that he can feel his pulse in his ears, but he’s leaning into her hand, so gentle on his face. Her eyelids are still heavy and his feel heavy, too. Suspended in the moment, he swallows._

_“Right,” he says. But he doesn't move._

_“You gonna take the dare, or should I pick it up, after all?” She leans in a little closer, but he sees a hint of insecurity on her face._

_It won't do. So he grips her hand on his cheek, closes the distance, and kisses her. It’s different, here and now, than all the kisses before, each with their very extenuating circumstances. It’s soft and sweet, lips sliding slowly against and between, breath mingling, the taste of alcohol stinging just slightly. He tilts his head down and the angle’s even better, the moist slide of her top lip moving between his until her tongue peeks out, licking his mouth so gently it tickles._

_Then, she darts her tongue into his mouth and it’s like a flip is switched for them both. He scrambles, rising to close the distance, and sliding his hand around her waist, pulling her towards him. She moves with him and somehow they’re both crouched on their knees. She brings her hand down to his neck and her other arm slides up his shoulder, pulling him hard into her. He moves his other arm to hold her, too, and grips her tightly, dipping his tongue into her mouth gently despite his frenzied actions._

_She bites it._

_He breaks away, breathing heavily (this part-human cardiovascular system is almost as bad as the circulatory system which, actually, has been sending blood all over the place in quite an unpredictable manner)._

_“Oh, fuck,” he says._

_Her eyes widen, and she’s flushed and so goddamn delicious looking. Her surprised expression borders on comical, until it turns utterly gratified. “Oh, say that again.”_

_He raises his eyebrows. “Fuck?”_

_She laughs and kisses him, grabbing his face between her hands and plunging her tongue in. She kisses her way from the side of his mouth to the little hollow right below his ear and he’s unmoving, on his knees, unable to do anything but rub small circles into her waistline. Soon, she works her way down to his collar bone, nibbling. Nibbling! It even stings a bit. He moans, pulling her tighter against him and grinding, unthinking, as he tries to relieve the building pressure._

_“Oh,” Rose says in his ear, and she buries her head in his neck, sucking small patches of skin, and moving against him in tiny up and down motions with her hips._

_He sucks in a breath and her scent fills his head, sweet and tangy and maddening. There is simply no hiding how hard he is in these shorts. A bolt of arousal, laced with anxiety, shoots through him and when she moves to kiss him again he captures her lips eagerly, trying to tamp it all down._

_His knees are starting to hurt, so hers must be also, and without conscious intent he moves back onto his haunches in a swift, graceless motion, arse hitting the floor with a thump, pulling her with him. His back hits the side of the bed (on it would’ve been better, again,) and he adjusts his legs until they’re out in front of him, while she hovers over him, sucking his tongue into her mouth and stroking its tip, nibbling, until it feels like every move of her mouth against his is connected by electrical impulse right to his cock._

_As soon as he's settled, she straddles him. He moans aloud at the feel of her, so warm and soft against his erection, even though she’s still in her worn denims. She moans, too, and he grips her hips, but keeps his still, fighting the urge to rut against her. She breaks away from their kiss and exhales roughly, her warm breath hitting his earlobe, the ticklish sensation giving him the urge to giggle, to touch her, to be touched. His head’s spinning and he’s not sure if it’s the alcohol setting in, after all, or if the nerves and the pleasure and the kissing Rose are all too much._

_She adjusts her hips until her center’s pressed directly over his erection and moves her hips. A frisson of pleasure courses through him and he raises his hips without conscious thought. She moans his name, watching him, and grinds against him in a slow circle, eyes heavy and dark and unwavering. His heart (his one heart) jumps. He moves one hand from her hip, fingers tightening against the curve of her arse, and kisses her again, and this time he’s the one exploring her mouth, nipping at her tongue and her soft, full bottom lip, slowing them down even as she speeds up._

_She rubs her center against him, movements becoming faster and lighter, and gasps against his mouth. He’s fully hard, throbbing, even aching, as he moves with her, letting her steer. She changes direction from her little circular motions to thrusting back and forth, stroking him with every turn of her hips, and he can't help but imagine the same motion, but with denims and pants gone. Imagines the lips of her sex gripping him lightly as they slide back and forth against his erection. Imagines the urge to thrust in. Imagines denying that urge and making her come by rubbing against her clit, outer lips coating him in moisture._

_He thrusts his tongue in at the thought, moaning against her mouth, and she stops kissing him back. He opens an eye, just a peek, worried something’s wrong, but hers are squeezed shut, and her hips are moving even faster, and she's gorgeous, so he lets his eye fall shut again and grips her arse with both hands, helping her. She tenses, breaking away from his mouth and shoving her head into the crook of his neck, letting out a keening moan and gripping his shoulders so tight it hurts. He pants, eyes squeezed shut even though he wishes he could see her face, but he can't, not with her head buried in his neck. He squeezes her arse, guiding her through her tremors, every movement sending bolts of pleasure from his cock into his spine and up through his limbs and head, but falling just short of what will send him along with her._

_Finally, she slows, then stops. He can feel her lips against his neck, her hands on his shoulders, loosening. He moves his from her arse back to her hips, breathing heavily, feeling every slight difference in the way this body experiences arousal, tense and keyed up and anxious underneath._

_“Condom,” she says into his neck._

_“What?”_

_“Hold on,” she says, grabbing his shoulders and carefully swinging her left leg over him, leaning heavily on him and, he assumes, her right knee. She wavers for a second and he steadies her with a hand on her waist without thought. She smiles at him, successfully righting herself, and releases her grip. He lets his hand fall onto the floor next to his thigh and she stands, still looking just slightly unsteady, eyes heavy, shirt slightly askew._

_He stares._

_“Going to the loo, it’s where the… and I need to…” She blushes, a little bit, or maybe she’s just flushed from the… Right._

_He swallows, nods. He can feel his pulse in his ears again, and his head’s still spinning, and Rose’s bike shorts are tight and uncomfortable around the pressure and the pulsing between his legs, and it’s overwhelming, all of it._

_She leaves, heading for the en suite._

_Nothing has ever felt like this, before, this total helplessness against his own physiology. And she’s gone to get…_

_He looks down at his torso, at the tight novelty t-shirt still showing a strip of bare skin, the grassy green bike shorts bulging at the center, his bare legs and feet, and his nails. He looks at his hand and it’s like it’s someone else’s - but then maybe it is. It was, once. Sort of. Maybe._

_Suddenly, it’s all too much._

_They shouldn’t - he knows they shouldn’t, not when they’ve been drinking so much, not when he’s suddenly ruminating about whose hand is attached to his wrist. He knows - he knows \- it’s his, same as ever, but this fog in his brain is turning everything topsy turvy. And she - and he - how are they going to - can he even - ? _

_He pulls the shirt down, then runs one hand through his hair and to his neck, rubbing absently._

_Isn’t it meant to be special? To be slow, and sweet, and, most of all, lucid? They’ve waited - he’s waited - so long. And what if she - what if she just meant for a kiss, and suddenly the chemistry (between them, inside their bodies) is driving her to do things she wouldn’t otherwise…? _

_And he - he’s sure he had thoughts about this, before the kiss (and then some), before the slansk. About taking things slowly. About both of them being really, properly sure (he is, he knows he is, and he thinks she is, but they’ve been apart so long, so much has changed so quickly, he just wants to do it right). He’s sure he’s had thoughts about making it really good - brilliant, even! And is he in any shape to do that, head full of cotton, slightly dizzy, mildly (well, maybe not mildly) overwhelmed? _

_He doesn’t register getting up, walking, nearly stumbling, until he’s past her bedroom door, out the front door, and in the yard. His feet are still moving even as he wonders what the hell he’s doing, and suddenly he finds himself at the front door of the modestly-sized Tyler guest house._

_He turns the handle. It’s locked._

_He should go back. He should absolutely go back and just tell her that they ought to wait until they’re sober, and why is he trying the large window just down the way from the front door when he really ought to be telling Rose he’s not in any shape to be using a condom? _

_The window opens and he climbs through. He’s in a child’s bedroom._

_Well, isn’t that fitting, childish as he’s being._

_He can still - he really should - go back. Go back. She’s Rose, and she’ll understand, and she’d never pressure him just like he’d never pressure her._

_He sits on the bed, hitting it roughly, his stomach flipping as he drops down lower than expected. He puts his elbows on his knees and hunches over, resting his head in his hands. He is the absolute worst scum in two universes, running away from a flushed, gorgeous, lovely woman, who wants nothing more than to be with him, after searching for so long, after choosing him, after saving him time and again._

_He’s going to get up, walk back, and maybe - if he’s lucky - she’ll still be in the bathroom and he can pretend he’s not still a coward, not still someone who runs._

_A soft knock sounds in the room and he looks up to see Rose standing in the doorway, a sad little smile on her face._

_“Hey.” Her eyes dart from him to the spot next to him on the bed. “Can I come in?”_

_His head’s stopped spinning, finally. The sudden clarity of how tremendous, gigantic, enormous an idiot he’s been in the last five minutes hits him like a lorry. But he doesn’t know what to say. _

_“Yeah.” Start simple._

_She nods, walking in and sitting next to him, feet planted on the floor, arms stretched out in front of her, hands on her knees. He straightens, pulls his shirt down again, fidgets._

_“Doctor…”_

_“I’m sorry.” He turns, knees pointing towards her, sharp and angular and higher than hip level, legs too long for the height of the bed._

_“What happened? Back there?” She meets his eyes and he’s ashamed, so ashamed, to have put this uncertain expression on her face._

_He clenches his jaw for a second, willing himself to be brave. A fleet of Daleks pales in comparison to fucking things up with Rose._

_“I dunno. I -- It was a lot. I’m - I’m very drunk, I think. I’m not sure, because it’s different, drinking in this body, but suffice to say I’m more inebriated than I’ve ever…” He stops for a second, trying to catch hold of his train of thought, an unheard of issue only demonstrating the truth of his words. “And we… we’ve never. Any of that. I didn’t mean to - to run. Before I knew it, here I was, and I was just about to come back, when--”_

_“Doctor.” She turns to him, smile small but genuine._

_“--when you arrived, and, again, I didn’t really intend -- one minute, we’re coloring your hair, it looks brilliant, by the way, and then I’m in this .. this shirt, and you’re on top of me, and -- I really feel out of sorts, new body and all - very new. New in a new way, even, and--”_

_“Doctor. Stop.”_

_She leans in, reaching out, wiggling her arms between his arms and torso, hugging him, resting her head against his chest, and it’s exactly, exactly what he needs. Letting out a breath in a long sigh, he relaxes, wrapping his arms around her, too, and leans his head atop hers, swallowing in relief. _

_“We were moving too fast.” She sounds quiet and serious, but not sad._

_“Rose--”_

_“Doctor. It’s okay.”_

_“It’s just that we… I want to do it right. I want it to be--”_

_“Me too. I do too. I shouldn’t have rushed you.”_

_He shakes his head, cheek rubbing against her hair. “You didn’t. Don’t say that. It was just a bit… overwhelming? So much has changed, not the least of which that I metabolise alcohol differently, and it all felt… It was - that was incredible. It was. I wanted it, too, and… I - just, after. After, I was…”_

_“You know, next time you can just say that.”_

_He nods. “I will.”_

_“Try, anyway. I know you’re not naturally the best communicator.”_

_He knits his eyebrows, offended. “Oi! I’ll have you know, I’ve won medals for my communication skills. Even a trophy, once!”_

_“I mean the real kind of communication, Doctor. With people you love. With stuff that’s hard to say. I know it’s new to you. And being together is new. A lot of this is. But you can tell me. S’just me, yeah?”_

_She squeezes him, moving her head to the spot between his neck and his shoulder, and he sighs, rubbing her back in slow, soft circles._

_“I know. I am sorry, though.”_

_“Oh, shut it. S’fine. We should wait.”_

_“Well, not too long.” _

_She laughs, a puff of breath hitting his upper arm._

_“Till we sober up, at least,” she says, and he feels her smile against him._

_“Right. Because I had plans for us, Rose Tyler. Plans that are contingent upon maintaining the very pinnacle of mental acuity.”_

_“You sure you’re drunk, talkin’ like that?”_

_He lets out a sharp breath. “Yeah. Very sure.”_

_She pulls away, wiggling her arms out, moving back enough to grip his shoulders lightly, and watching him carefully. “But you’re okay?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Good.”_

_They’re quiet for a moment, and he finds himself unexpectedly sleepy. Like the physical energy bled out of him along with the emotional._

_“That reminds me,” Rose says, and her smile regains a hint of its earlier mischievousness._

_“Oh?”_

_She pulls a small object from the pocket of her denims and he stares at it for almost an entire second before he realizes what it is._

_“A mobile?”_

_“Been meanin’ to give it to you. Pete has ‘em, you know, standard issue and all - for Vitex and for Torchwood. But it’s just so we can reach each other.”_

_He takes it from her, switching it on, and studies it. “Has it got your number in it, then?”_

_“Not yet, no. S’new. But I’ll give it to you now - you ready?”_

_“Yeah, think so.”_

_He programs in the number, tagging her as “the most magnificent woman in the multiverse,” (perhaps he’s a sappy drunk) only to find that the coordination in his fingers isn’t what it should be (all the more reason to wait) and he can’t seem to get the hang of the caps lock key. He can fix it tomorrow._

_She watches him play with the phone, a gentle smile on her face (perhaps she’s a sappy drunk too), and as he looks up at her he feels his cheeks warm._

_“I’m going to - um. The loo. Just a mo’.”_

_He gets up, walking into the en suite, and places the phone on the counter, taking a moment to empty his bladder, wash his hands, rinse his face, and thank his lucky stars that he hasn’t buggered it all with Rose through five minutes of drunken idiocy._

_When he returns, she’s lying back on the child-sized bed, blankets up to her chest, still looking at him so tenderly that his throat starts to tighten. His muscles feel deeply relaxed, his head fuzzy. She pats the bed and the idea of lying down next to her is the most reassuring thing he can imagine._

_“Sleepy?” she asks._

_“A bit.”_

_He sits down, ready to get under the covers, but the shirt’s ridden up again and he tugs at it futilely. She notices._

_“Why don’t you just take it off?”_

_He glances at her, but her expression is innocent._

_“No funny business. S’just - you’ll be more comfortable.”_

_He nods, and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. He knows if he were sober he’d be gloating about the way her eyes glaze over as she watches him disrobe. As it is, he just wants to lie down and pull her close and sleep for, oh, ten or fifteen hours._

_He lies down next to her, covering himself with the blankets, and she lifts up for a moment, settling back down in the nook of his arm, resting her head on his shoulder._

_“S’nice. Cozy. Let’s just stay here.”_

_Nice doesn’t quite cover what it is to hold Rose Tyler. It never would, but especially not now that he’s know what it’s like to be certain - so certain - that he’d never hold her again. He’s overcome with just how much better a deal he’s got than the other him. He’d damn well better make the best of it, then._

_“We won’t wait long.”_

_“However long you need, yeah?”_

_“Not long.”_

_“Kay.” Her denim-clad leg brushes his bare one._

_“Are you - going to sleep in your jeans, then?”_

_Her lips turn down in an ironic smile and she groans. “Yeah, you’re right. Guess not. Was fine, till you brought it up. Now I’m uncomfortable.”_

_She moves off of him, standing, and, a thoughtful look on her face, she unfastens her bra, first, pulling it out from her shirt in some unfathomable manoeuvre and dropping it on the floor. Then she unzips her fly, pulling the denims down until something poking out of the pocket visibly jabs her in the thigh. Furrowing her brow, she reaches in, pulling out a marker. She finishes shimmying out of her denims, leaving them on the floor, and looks at the Doctor, eyes gleaming._

_“Truth or dare.”_

_His lips twitch. “Dare.”_

_“You’re mine, right? So, I figure,” -- she holds up the marker -- “the world should know.”_

_He shrugs, lifting his arms slightly in assent. “Consider me your canvas, Rose Tyler.”_

_She jumps onto the narrow bed, grinning and huddling over him, and starts writing. It’s ticklish and he tries to see, but she swats him away, insistent upon finishing her work. He looks down when she’s done, a grin quickly spreading on his face._

_“Can’t argue with the message,” he says, admiring. “Still, though. Green glitter?”_

_“It’s Tony’s!”_

_“A likely story.”_

_She throws the marker somewhere and shuts out the light, lifting the covers and burrowing back into his side. Warm and profoundly sleepy, he closes his eyes.)_

The Doctor looked down, realizing he’d missed another text message while he was remembering all of the deeply embarrassing things he did the night before.

_Are you still in the guest house?_

He sent off an affirmative response, leaving the phone on the nightstand and returning to the en suite. Anticipating her return, and really starting to hate the awful taste in his mouth, he grabbed a spare toothbrush and a travel sized toothpaste from the cabinet. He brushed his teeth thoroughly, until even his Time Lord taste buds couldn’t taste a hint of sour anymore.

Returning to the bedroom, he looked up to see Rose in the doorway, knocking softly on the the door jamb, her position so reminiscent of the night before that his stomach flipped. Unlike last night, however, the smell of chips wafted in, and he was surprised to feel his stomach growl.

“Hey,” she said, smiling at him. “Got us some chips. And I brought you a better shirt.” She held it up (a regular, non-novelty t-shirt, the correct size for a fully grown part-human Time Lord).

He looked down at his torso and back up at her with an amused expression. “I haven’t made much progress since waking up.”

“Are you hungover?” She tossed the shirt at him and this time he caught it with ease.

“Oh, absolutely. Without a doubt.” He threw the shirt on as he walked back to the bed, smiling at her and patting the spot next to him as he sat. “You?”

She cringed in sympathy, sitting down and placing the clamshell styrofoam take out container between them.

“Only right when I woke up - I chugged some water and took some painkillers right away. Had to go down to Torchwood and fill out the papers officially declaring my formerly unofficial leave of absence. Oh! Did you take something? God, I’m sorry. I didn’t even make you drink water before we went to sleep.”

“I’m fine.” He hesitated for a second. “Jackie gave me some water and some paracetamol. I feel a little better now. And I have a feeling that chips are just the thing.”

“Really?” Rose asked, raising her eyebrows. “Mum came and made you take some medicine? That was nice of her. I think she’s very glad to have you back, Doctor.”

He selected a chip, taking a bite, and nodding. “Well, she laughed at me, too. And her dog woke me up.”

Rose scrunched up her nose. “Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine. Blimey, I’m hungry. What is it--” He looked at the screen on the phone and whistled, impressed. “One o’clock. Haven’t slept quite like that… maybe ever, actually.”

“That’s good, right?”

“I suppose. Still a bit knackered, though. And my head…I always thought you humans were exaggerating about hangovers, but…” He shook his head lightly.

“Yeah, they’re no exaggeration.” Rose smiled, grabbing a chip and popping it into her mouth.

“And I’m a right mess. Green, everywhere.”

She looked him up and down, grinning, and took another chip. “You look good to me.”

“Really? Like the nails, then?” He held up his hand and gave her a little wave, raising his eyebrow.

“Maybe I do,” Rose said. “Maybe I like a man who pushes gender boundaries.”

He rolled his eyes, talking as he chewed. “Please, Rose. That’s such a twenty-first century attitude. You’ve seen the fashions in, say, 32nd century Tiska. Everyone paints their nails, even the six-armed Tiskanian-Kolkrab hybrids. I like painted nails! It’s just not practical, is all. I’m always chipping them.”

“You did a great job on mine!”

“Well, obviously. I was a bit drunk, but I’m still _me_.”

Rose looked down, nervously taking a chip and shoving it into her mouth, and he saw her cheeks turn pink. He wondered what memory he’d triggered from the night before.

“I do love the hair,” he said around the last chip, closing the styrofoam container and tossing it onto the nightstand.

“Yeah?” She looked up at him, a sly, uneven smile forming on her face. Gorgeous and just a little bit naughty.

“Oh, yes.”

He reached forward, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward him. She shifted over until her thigh, clad in trousers, settled against his, still bare.

“Doctor--”

He interrupted her with a kiss, cupping her face in his hands and gently pressing his lips to hers. Her response was immediate, one arm wrapped low around his waist, the other grasping his shoulder lightly. He licked her bottom lip and she parted hers so that he tasted her mouth, salty and still a little sweet underneath. He could feel the blood rushing to his cock, fast and all the more intense for being left wanting the night before. He moaned, deepening the kiss.

Rose broke away, eyes hazy, expression unsure.

“Are we - should we talk about - things?”

He stroked her cheek, taking the hand she’d placed on his bicep into his own. He twined their fingers, laying them on his thigh.

“We’re full of potatoes.” His mouth twitched. “Again. And…” he leaned in, giving her a peck on the cheek, “we’re tired,” he kissed her jaw, “and we’re hungover,” he kissed her on the corner of her mouth. “and, as I said last night, I really want it to be … perfect.”

She smiled tenderly at him, squeezing his fingers in hers. “I do too.”

“I just find myself wanting to kiss you quite a lot, as well.” He gave a little shrug. “It’s actually extremely confusing. And don’t even get me started on my circulatory system! I used to be able to control those kinds of things.”

She looked down at their twined fingers, wistful expression on her face turning into something else altogether - heated, conflicted - when her eyes landed on the bulge in his bike shorts.

“Oh. _That_ kind of thing.”

“It’s entirely out of my control. Well, mostly. I suppose kissing you was under my control.” His expression grew pensive. “Or was it?”

She huffed, interrupting his thoughts, eyes still on his shorts. “Do you think I have a _problem_ with it?”

He grimaced, sandwiching her hand in both of his and wobbling them in his lap from side to side. “Honestly? I’m not exactly sure what the etiquette is.”

“The etiquette is: if you’ve got ‘property of Rose Tyler’ written across your chest, you’re allowed to… get excited. S’just…”

“What?” He stroked his fingertips against the back of her hand.

“Last night. You never…”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“But you wanted to take things slow.” She frowned. “We wanted. Both of us. Sorry.”

She was still looking at his crotch. It was… actually making him harder. And he could smell her again, all warm and tangy-sweet. This could very easily turn into an endless cycle of watching each other and growing aroused from each other’s arousal, likely ending in his spontaneous combustion and the remodeling of the children’s guest bedroom.

“Do you - do you think that it’s taking it slow, if we… You know. We save that. For later. But we…” She met his eyes, looking brave and vulnerable, like everything he wanted in the world. “I want you to touch me. And I want to touch you. No sex, though. Not yet. Is that taking it slow?”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Yeah, should do.”

She nodded, a small crease between her eyebrows. “Good.”

“Right, then.”

He leaned in, kissing her hard, one hand combing through her hair. She tightened her arm around his waist and shifted her weight until she was collapsing back onto the bed, pulling him atop her. He followed gracelessly, bracing himself over her and to the side, leaning most of his weight on one arm, fingers still twined with hers, and bringing his other hand down from her hair to her collarbone, rubbing gentle strokes from her shoulder to the top of her breast.

Her breath hitched and she opened her mouth against his. He took the invitation, tongue dipping sweetly into her mouth, over and over, sucking her full bottom lip gently into his mouth, just barely stroking the top and sides of her breasts, but making no move to take off her clothing, to touch her nipples. She moaned and the sound seemed to go right to his cock, full and aching and pressed against her hip.

She released his hand, breaking away from their kiss and sitting up. She pulled off her blouse, tossing it, and unbuttoned her trousers, pulling them down her hips quickly, kicking them off so they flew across the room. Clad in nothing but a bra and cotton knickers, she grabbed the bottom of his new t-shirt.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse.

She pulled it up and, with his assistance, got it off him, tossing that across the room as well. She grabbed him by the back of the head and pulled him towards her, kissing him again.

Now that he was sober, her scent, her skin, her taste - all of it was more vivid. He skimmed his hand along her bare waist, up and down, and she sucked on his lip until he gasped. Evidently impatient, she brought her hand from his shoulder down to the waistline of the bike shorts, reaching into them and wrapping her soft, warm fingers around his erection. He moaned, rolling onto his back (and nearly falling off the bed), giving her better access. He was so sensitive, and her hand felt amazing. She rolled over onto him, hot center over his right thigh, and stroked him up and down, slowly, covering every centimetre, while rubbing herself against his leg.

He adjusted so he was turned just slightly onto his right side, facing Rose, and reached over the arm that gripped him to stroke the patch of skin between her belly button and the top of her knickers, over and over, breathing heavily as she curled her hand around the tip of his cock.

“Doctor, touch me.”

Letting out a shuddering breath, he dipped his hand in, sliding down until he felt her damp, coarse hair against his hand. Curling his fingers, he stroked her outer lips lightly, fingers trailing over her clit and down to her entrance, back and forth, not yet dipping in. She was wet and she panted into his ear, breath catching and hand tightening against his cock every time his fingers brushed her clit. He swore under his breath.

She let out a chuckle that turned into a moan. “Glad that wasn’t a one-time thing.”

“Wha--?”

She hummed against his mouth, kissed his chin. “The swearing.”

“Oh.”

“Stop teasin’ me, Doctor.” She sped up the movement of her hand and he felt tingling from the base of his spine to the top of his skull.

“Slow down, slow down,” he said, and parted her lips, pushing a finger inside her and moving it slowly in and out.

She moaned, long and loud, and he did too. The warm, wet grip on his finger, hand wrapped around his cock, it was all incredible.

“Another.”

He obliged, sliding a second finger into her and pushing them in to the knuckle, rubbing gently against the little raised portion of flesh along the top wall, and teasing her clit with his thumb. He started up a deep, steady movement - in, out - until her back was tense and her rhythm against his cock irregular. She breathed quickly, face warm as it brushed against his, planting kisses along his neck and jaw, and he thought he might actually outlast her, until…

“Wait, wait, give me your hand.”

She released his cock, slipping her hand out of his shorts and tugging on the wrist inside her knickers. Confused, he pulled out his fingers, head hazy, and admired the sheen on them. She grabbed his hand, squeezing the moisture off each finger, and he whined, jealous, wanting a taste.

 _Then_ she slipped her hand back into his shorts and it was - slick. Slippery. Warm. Letting out a ragged breath, he licked his fingers anyway, enjoying the faint, sweet tang, and slid his hand back into her knickers just as she sped up the motion of her hand, smooth and quick, fingers curling around the top of his cock with every upward stroke, sending bolts of pleasure that spread through his body.

He wasn’t going to last.

Fighting a losing battle, he dipped two fingers into her again, stroking more quickly, fingers curling against the inner wall, thumb rubbing tight circles around her clit. Her breath sped up again until she was moaning almost continuously, hips moving back and forth in tandem with his motions.

She kissed him, shoving her tongue deep into his mouth, nibbling his lip, sucking his tongue, her hand on his cock fast and slick. He felt his balls tighten until the coiled tension in him burst. He cried out, hips thrusting helplessly, spasms shuddering through him until, finally, all that was left were small tremors. She stroked him through it, gently, pulling her hand back and resting it on his hip just as he started to feel too sensitive.

She was still rocking back and forth, nibbling on his lip, and moaning, now a little desperately. She threw a leg over his hip, giving him better access, and he sped up the thrusts of his fingers, rubbing back and forth against her clit, lightly, but quickly, careful to keep her sensitive. Her leg and her fingers both tightened against him and she broke away from the kiss, crying out his name. He worked her through her climax, eagerly watching her flushed, gorgeous face.

When her breathing slowed, he withdrew his fingers, licking every trace of her and pulling her in for another kiss. She kissed him back slowly, deeply, breaking away with a laugh and a smile.

“Oh. Wow.”

He laughed, too, grinning at her. “I know! Just think how good the rest of it’s going to be.”

He wrapped both arms around her, sighing contentedly. She rested her head on his arm, idly tracing the letters she’d drawn on him the night before.

“I am, you know,” the Doctor said, burying his nose in her hair.

“What?”

“Property of Rose Tyler.”

She smirked. “I know. S’why I wrote it.”

“In vino, veritas, as they say. Do they say that here? Or maybe it’s… In slansk… Hm. Makeovers?”

“Ah, yes, the age-old saying: in slansk, makeovers. How you have so much insight about this universe already, I have no idea.”

He harrumphed, tickling his fingers against her side until she squealed.

“You’re gonna make me fall out of bed!”

“Naah.” He rubbed her back, going quiet.

“Doctor?”

“Hm?”

“Let’s go back to my room. This bed’s feeling less cozy and more... cramped. I want to spread out a bit. And shower. And maybe go back to sleep.”

“Why, Rose Tyler, that is a marvelous idea.”

Rose sat up slowly, looking around at the mess on the floor with a troubled expression. “Doctor, I think we might want to clean this up a bit, first. I can’t imagine what mum would say about us defiling the children’s guest bedroom.”

“Oh, no, no, no.” He squeezed his eyes shut at the thought. “Keep talking like that and I’ll need another drink.”


End file.
